Page 102 of Sinners Atone
My next gulp of beer tastes like lukewarm disappointment, so I flag down a passing server and order something stronger. Iturn over cards. Crack my neck. Even strum my fingers on the table to the beat of a 90’s one-hit-wonder.
But then a murderous thought grips me.
She’s not coming tonight.
So what else is she fucking doing?
The worst-case scenario flashes against the rock wall like a festive montage.
Red: her hand sliding down another man’s bicep.
Green: her panties sliding down her thighs.
Venom shoots up my spine and explodes at the base of my skull. The thought of another man seeing her panties turns my blood acidic.
My fingers grapple for the earbud in the right pocket of my jeans, then change course for the left pocket to snatch up my cell and check her Instagram profile for the millionth time today.
I swear, if she’s gone on thatdate, I’ll fucking?—
Ding.
It’s barely audible. The type of sound only mad dogs and me can hear, but it shoots through the cave on the back of a silver bullet.
My eyes snap to the elevator.
Red.
Green.
Pink.
It’s only a glimpse. An inch of space between two sliding doors, filled with blonde, sparkles, and heels. But it turns out, I’m no better than my brother, because an inch is all it takes for my spine to jerk straight.
Self-disgust wraps around my neck like a noose. I’d rather be stabbed in the groin ten times over than in the same boat as Rafe, but just like him, I can’t look away.
The doors slide all the way open. A pool of gold light spills out onto the concrete, and when she steps into it, my muscles harden to stone, because?—
That. Fucking. Dress.
It’s the first thing I notice and the only thing I see. Not that there’s much of ittosee. I’ve used more fabric to polish a damn gun.
My blood heats and my gaze thins, carving a line of fire down the length of her. The neckline is as low as the hemline is high, and what little there is in between clings to every curve and dip like it’s been vacuum-sealed to her body.
A hot hiss escapes my nostrils. Christ. She’s poured into that thing like hot honey.
I glare until the sparkles make my eyes sore, then palm my jaw and look up at the craggy ceiling for relief. Of all the fucking things to curse, I choose my father’s name.
Ten rules, yet none of them were relevant to civilized society. I never learned how to share, say sorry, or play fairly. Every lesson revolved around anger, and though I learned how to channel it into my fist or trigger finger, I never learned what to do with it when it didn’t fit the crime.
I was taught that unwarranted anger is as good as any. But despite my fucked-up childhood, somehow my prefrontal cortex developed just enough to recognize the difference.
Did I know it was unwarranted when I caught Rafe’s lackey undress Her with his eyes? Yes.
Did it stop me from clawing said eyes out with my car key and tossing his body, heart still beating, into the same body bag as Kelly O’Hare?
Of course not.
Guess I’ve never cared for the distinction.
